Finding Christmas
by DreamEscape1675
Summary: When the world goes dark, there is always hope to light the way back home. ( Post- Winter Soldier - Bucky & Steve)


**Finding Christmas**

**All characters belong to Marvel Comics**

**{This story is dedicated to shadowhuntingdauntlessdemigod, JuliaAurelia and Thalion Estel)**

* * *

It always starts with cold touch of death lashing against his skin.

Blood drips from his lips; he tries to speak names that configure into forgotten memories. They never stay.

He hears the voices, ringing in his ear drums, sadistic, inhumane and condemning. Each word feels like a knife in the heart, slicing deeper until his tears become frozen drops of blood. When he opens his eyes, they force him to look into the mirror, yanking his long strands of shoulder length hair, creating more pain as it pulses in his skull. He stares into the reflection of a ghost, a haunting wraith of a nightmarish past; he doesn't look beautiful, his pale blue eyes, the color of a clear December sky fades into a smoky gray.

His chiseled face remains changeless, yes, there is lines of age hidden in the youthful skin, his broad jaw always grows tight when the droning noises of the machine make contact with his imprisoned soul. He is sentence to live under the ice, to fulfill other men's dark desires-kill, destroy and extract.

He walks on the razor's edge every night, standing in the division of reason and control. His body is bound to the chains of winter; his blood freezes and heart beat stills, almost like it stops complete, making him feel dead.

If he speaks to his handlers, they mistreat his words and punish him with a slap of a hand.

Pain.

He knows that he must remain silent; because when he remembers one detail of a life, the machine, steel and torturous erases his mind until he is a programmed drone-receiving orders instead of accepting them.

Blood sprays on the walls, bullets gather on the ground and screams become distant howls.

He wants to grief in front of the stone graves, read the names of the lives he was ordered to destroy. He never gets a chance to touch the engraved memories in the stone. He never gets a chance to shed a tear for the innocence that was taken from a shot in the dark.

All his time has been taken.

He always trudges through the snow, wishing that he was never awakened; the ghosts of his dreams always find a way to bring him back. He spends his restless hours gathering pieces of a life; mending the shards back together with the blood on his hands.

* * *

Now, he finds himself following the guiding light, he is unarmed, no weapons strapped to his body, just a jacket, gray shirt, jeans and a baseball cap.

He moves with elusive steps, heart pounds with each stride, and he keeps his metal hand stuffed in his pocket. He stands in front of a memory-uniforms that carry defiance, courage and valor. Images of good men painted-airbrushed on the wall that entered the jaws of Hell with with him.

He lowers his head, whispering in his own voice, using his own thoughts, "I knew these men..." he says, taking a step backwards in time, and turns to gaze at a display that held the face of a young soldier-short dark hair, gentle eyes and full lips. He blinks for a fraction of a second, his blue eyes intent and obscured by confusion. He mumbles out the name, feeling a flicker of warmth ignite in his chest.

"James Buchanan Barnes..."

He looks down at his black combat boots, and felt the corners of his lips slack into a despondent frown.

_Run._

He twists his body around, systematically looking for all exits, and he moves quickly in hushed steps, panic seizes him; he pays no attention to the crowds. His metal plated shoulders rams into a woman's arm, bruising the fragile skin, he says sorry in a faint breath, and manages to escape - he bumps into another body, the impact rattled his bones, but he keeps his head low and vanishes into the shadows.

_They will kill you...You're defective._

Three days pass, he barely has a reason to live. His stomach is empty, throat dry and heart throbs.

The clothes his wears are ratty, tattered and old. He keeps his laden brown locks tucked underneath a plain black cap, and his metal hand is always stuffed in his left pocket. He spends his days, staring at the same face. His face. Sergeant James Barnes.

He gathers pieces of a stolen life, mending them back together with each faint memory that skims in his tortured mind.

Nothing is concrete.

* * *

A week goes by, and after wandering the city like looming ghost, haunting everyone he meets on the sidewalks, he is standing in the falling snow. The vibrancy of Christmas lights reflect in his blue eyes, he forgets what Christmas means to him, its just another day of loneliness and coldness.

Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, he stands in front of a old diner's window, the lights are faded and windows are covered with grime. He knows its safe. Cautiously he enters, heavy boots leave tracks of melting snow of the creaking floor, and he moves to a red leather booth, rubs his real gloved hand on the scuffed up table, and sets his wary blue eyes on a jukebox-old and dusty.

A smile, unrestricted manages to cross over his full and numb lips; memories of beautiful young dames in scarlet and evergreen replay in his mind, the smell of cider hovers in the dingy air, but it never lasts.

Stepping back to the table, he removes his pistol from a hostler strapped to his thigh, places it on the table, pointing the weapon to the window.

After systemically scanning his piercing blue eyes around the vacant space, he settles down at the booth, and leans his rigid back against the cushions as if he is waiting for someone to arrive.

It's almost midnight...Christmas.

Lowering his head, he feels the drapes of his disheveled strands fall over his chiseled features, and he closes his eyes.

His full lips move, and he makes a wish in a breath, "I just want to know if I have a name..." he pauses in his words, lifts his head up and stares teary eyed at the large flakes of snow hitting the glass panes.

"I want to have a friend again...I think his name is Steve...but I'm not sure..." he wipes his hand over his damp eyes, and whispers in a broken and strained voice, "I'm sorry for everything I've done...I never meant to hurt anyone...Take lives and scare people. I know it's not the real me..."

He lowers his head into his shaking hands and sobs in the silence of winter.

_Alone._

* * *

Across the city Steve focus his crystal blue eyes on the flecks of snow cascading over vacant rooftops. He's standing in front of a window, arm leaning against the glass, feeling the coldness of the air penetrate through his skin. His chiseled and commanding features are caressed by the warm lights of Clint's artifact Christmas tree, he's surrounded by the Avengers-Thor is sitting on the couch with an amused grin on his face as the rest watch Tony try to lift up the hammer while downing a glass bowl of eggnog mixed with whiskey. Steve is a mere shadow to his friends, standing in the obscured darkness, transfixed on the snowfall with a mug of hot chocolate in his hand. He's not in the mood for anything, just searching beyond his illusions, and silently praying that his best friend-his brother would somehow return to him.

Natasha saunters up to his tensed body, surprising him as her soft lips leave a sensation of warm on his clenched jaw, almost close to the corner of his full lips, but she doesn't wait for him to respond. Instead, she places her small hand on his broad shoulder, and whispers, "Merry Christmas, Rogers."

Steve takes his fixed blue eyes off the window, and rests his hand on her cheek, he looks at her with a distant promise, "I will find him, Nat..." he whispers, his voice firm and hopeful. "No matter what it takes...I will have my best friend back."

"I know, Steve," she replies, with a softening voice, and then leaves him, while hiding a frown.

Steve glances over his shoulder, and looks back at her. He loves her, but right now he has a mission to complete. "Merry Christmas, Natasha,"

* * *

The knells of the church bells echo a comforting melody, the ghost of winter looms through the streets, pale blue eyes cast down, looking at footprints left in the snow. His long brown hair billows in the frosty wind, and chilled lips part, as he inhales a lit cigarette. The haze of smoke mixes in with the air, and he breathes. Just breathes and walks with methodical steps, boots soggy and skin raw. He doesn't fret, its freedom, and he preserves every moment of it.

Within a short time of his trek, he halts at a streetlight, something familiar lulls his senses, heart pounds, and eyes scan over the area. A tall figure trudging on the sidewalk comes in view, his soul churns and tears build, but he's not sure if this man is an illusion, he doesn't want hope to fade, so he hesitates in the seconds when he stares at the other man, and just keeps on staring. He wants to speak, but his voice remains locked.

The taller man wears the appearance like Captain America, same bone structure in the face, ruffled and spiked blonde hair, and bright eyes, but there is something different, he doesn't smile, as if time took away those emotions.

He takes his chances, and yells out in a desperate voice, "Steve," he clearly remembers the name as it rolls off his tongue.

Steve freezes in his steps, heart thuds to a stop, and eyes lock on the dark haired man leaning against the cement pole, he blinks, and takes in all the details of the obscured face, but the man's haunted blue eyes answers his prayer, and he feels tears stream down his cheeks, "Bucky?" he chokes out, his lips part, and he almost loses his balance. "Bucky..." he yells into the open air.

Hearing his name, Bucky lowers his head, ashamed, tears prick in his eyes, "Steve...I just want to say..."

He doesn't even get the chance to, Steve's muscular body collides into his slender body, his bones jostle as the super-soldier wraps his arms around him, holding him close into a protect embrace against the coldness.

"Don't say anything, jerk," The captain cries out, not afraid to feel his bottled emotions seep out of him. "Just breathe, Bucky." Steve urges, he wants to make sure that this moment isn't a dream, that he is feeling flesh and blood against his wounded heart.

Bucky closes his eyes, and rests his head on his friend's shoulder, and whispers in a broken tone, "Is this home, Steve?"

Steve nods, as tears dampened into Bucky's disheveled strands of hair, "Yeah, this is home, Buck."

Feeling his heartbeat steady in his chest, Bucky smiles, because he doesn't know what else to say.


End file.
